


here in the smallest bones

by turnpikedarling



Series: my favorite chords [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Scott, Alternate Universe - Tattoo Parlor, Body Modification, Friends to Lovers, M/M, POV Scott, Panties, Stick 'n' Poke Tattoos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-16
Updated: 2014-07-16
Packaged: 2018-02-08 06:09:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1929618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/turnpikedarling/pseuds/turnpikedarling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It isn’t really remarkable, for the most part. It’s as easy as it’s ever been between them. Scott and Stiles just want to love each other, so they do.</p>
            </blockquote>





	here in the smallest bones

**Author's Note:**

> i am so glad to have gotten to write for [the amazing art that](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1968405) [onemanwolfpack](http://archiveofourown.org/users/onemanwolfpack/pseuds/onemanwolfpack) made. it's gorgeous, and she even created additional art! please go look at it! it was such a joy writing in collaboration with her! please check it out. it's a huge part of this story, and it's beautiful.
> 
> thank you to the mods of the reversebang for putting this together! thank you to my beta k, who doesn't have a tumblr or ao3 but is wonderful nonetheless, and a huge huge thank you to everyone for all of the late night word wars that helped get this done!
> 
> also i'm not a tattoo artist or piercer, so any and all mistakes about best practices are my own. 
> 
> come say hi [on tumblr](http://www.mickeyed.tumblr.com)!

It isn’t really remarkable, for the most part. It’s as easy as it’s ever been between them.

One minute they’re walking down the street together on the way into work, each carrying greasy breakfast sandwiches in one hand and milkshakes in the other, and the next thing he knows, Scott’s leaning over and kissing Stiles up against the side of the shop. It’s soft, a little bit of a question from both of them behind their shallow breaths. They both drop their takeout bags on the sidewalk and Stiles wraps his arm around Scott’s neck to pull him in closer, parts his lips a little bit.

They stay like that, kissing happily, sloppily, until Scott pulls away and rubs their cheeks together, drags a hand down Stiles’ face and rests it on his neck to feel the pulse there. It’s steady and sure, no different than when they’re standing next to each other brushing their teeth or watching a movie on the couch, limbs folded over each other. Like this is just another way they’re finding to belong to each other.

Scott ducks his head back in and slides their mouths together, messy and newly familiar, making out in broad daylight for the first time.

He jumps back after a minute when he hears someone clear their throat directly next to them, and they both turn their heads to find Allison staring at them with an amused smile on her face. She’s got her sunglasses on and it’s hard to see her expression past her mouth, but when she says, “Don’t think this means you get to take longer lunch breaks now,” and pulls a beer out of the back pocket of her shorts before she walks away, Scott knows she isn’t surprised at all.

Neither is he, really. 

When they turn back to each other, Stiles looks at him with his flushed cheeks, his bitten lips. His eyes go sharp and sarcastic, smart like they always are when he’s not caught off-guard, and the tone in his voice when he speaks is teasing more than anything. “I know you weren’t just trying to get out of going into work,” he laughs.

Scott tilts his chin up, leans in and kisses Stiles to fill the happy silence after, one hand still swung out to his side holding shitty takeout food. He presses in as close as he can, gets rid of every bit of air between them, crowds Stiles up against the wall and puts his mouth right next to Stiles’ ear.

“No. I just wanted to,” Scott says, and he means it. It’s that easy.

The two of them want to love each other, so they do.

///

The little street in Berkeley that Allison’s tattoo shop sits on is tucked away around a corner near the university, mostly student apartments and two coffee shops, a laundromat down at the end of the block. The last remaining video rental store in the world is sandwiched in between a place with a bright green door and a brownstone with a stoop that Scott’s always falling asleep on. The neighbors know him from a block away by now because they’ve found him napping there at all hours of the day - on his lunch break, in between customers, while he waits for Stiles to finish the Tuesday night shift he always manages to get out of. The two of them have been working there for a couple of years together, biking over from their shitty, happy little apartment in Oakland every day to open up or close it down, and it’s their home as much as anything else.

Allison and Scott and Stiles have been in each other’s orbits for years - Scott and Stiles grew up together, sandbox best friends since they were kids, and they both met Allison when she was sixteen and working reception at a place in Monterrey one summer. It was her dad’s friend’s shop, someone that catered to wolves and faeries and who was totally willing to look past child labor laws to let a determined, charming girl work the counter, learn how to pierce little girls’ ears. Scott and Stiles both got their first piercing done on a day when she was working and she’d watched them both go pale, stuck lollipops in their grubby teenage boy fingers. Scott remembers the way she set them at ease, the way she pulled them in for hugs when they were done. He just got his lobes done, small gauged so he could stretch them, but Stiles got the bridge of his nose done and spent the rest of the afternoon talking about being able to see balls everywhere, flirting with Allison, and asking for more lollipops. They’d all been friends ever since, even after she picked up a tattoo gun one day and never looked back.

It’s a small enough world to run in, anyway. It isn’t hard to stick together. The last time Scott checked there wasn’t really a huge market for supernatural body modification in California, so when Allison opened up her own place on her twenty-second birthday, drunk and happy and tacking crepe paper to walls with chewing gum, she’d pretty much cornered the market on that one. 

Two years later and they’re all still there; Allison’s the youngest and best tattoo artist on the West Coast who takes werewolf clients, and Stiles has been something like her apprentice since the day the doors opened for business. Scott spends his days doing piercings for every kind of creature on the planet, from old human women to just-bitten wolves trying to get control of their body in any way they know how. 

Those are his favorite - the ones that remind him of himself at sixteen, the ones who come in with fake IDs and uncontrollable front fangs that drop when the needle goes through, all bravado before that and sheepish grins after. Scott remembers being like that, the summer he got bitten out in the woods, looking for anything that could make him know his body again, looking for anything he could do to make it his own. 

It’s better now that he’s settled into his pack as their quiet, steady alpha. Stiles and Allison, Lydia, Erica, Isaac and Boyd - they’re small but they’re a family, and when Allison hired Cora, she and Derek started working their way into their lives and never left. The pack stays close, works well together, moves in each other’s spaces like they’ve known each other since birth. Derek owns the coffee shop down the street where Isaac works, Boyd and Erica are at the video store, and Scott feels at home on this block. He can step foot on it and breathe easy, round the corner and know where he stands, feel the animal parts of him settle into a comfortable rhythm with the rest of him.

Every touch of ink to his skin makes him feel clearer, and when he walks into the shop and finds his people smiling up at him, he knows this is where he’s supposed to be. Where he’s wanted to be from the start, in the middle of good people and good drinks, happy laughter, quiet joy.

///

“Why do we have a leather couch,” Stiles moans, tripping through the door after one of his morning coffee runs. He drops his bag unceremoniously in the middle of everything, leaving it directly in the center of the floor, and Derek follows him in with his hands full of as many to-go cups as he can possibly carry.

Scott looks up from behind the counter just as Stiles puts his own drink down and drapes himself over the length of the couch, groaning dramatically as he does. It’s a hot day, one of the sweltering kinds where you can see the temperature bouncing off of every lamppost and the kind where no shirt is safe from sweat stains. Stiles grumbles into his arm. It’s thrown over his face, bent elbow sticking haphazardly upward as he breathes against his skin.

“Because Allison hates you and she wants you to be unhappy,” Scott answers with his best beaming smile. 

Stiles scowls at him from across the room and sinks further into himself. 

Derek rolls his eyes and hands Scott an iced latte. “Sugar, no cream,” he says, nodding.

“Get up, Stilinski,” Cora yells, trailing in behind him in her black cut offs and a black bandeau, backwards Oakland As hat perched over a messy, low bun. Stiles shows no sign of having heard her and doesn’t move an inch. 

Cora scoffs, unslings her messenger bag from across her shoulder, and drops it onto Stiles’ stomach before she hops up next to Scott on a stool behind the counter and grabs the book for the day.

“Hey, you’ve got an eleven o’clock that wants a Prince Albert,” she tells Scott, reaching her arm across his space to grab a pen. 

Scott loves looking at her tattoos - one sleeve of blackwork and dot work, a phoenix on her forearm and a wolf’s head circling her shoulder, its fangs baring just below her collarbone. The other sleeve is light, a pastel forestscape and no black lines to be found. Allison did that sleeve when she was learning the techniques, swirling all the inks together like a watercolor. Some days they would come in to open up shop and find Allison already there, filling in some buttercup-colored tree roots on Cora’s shoulder to start the day, wrapping a pale green vine around her wrist to get the practice.

He leans back to make space for her but she pulls away and is penciling it into the right appointment slot in less than a minute, and he grins.

“There’s just something about dick piercings,” Derek says wistfully, taking a sip of his own doppio on ice.

“You’re doing a dick piercing this morning? That’s definitely a way to start your day,” Stiles calls from his spot on the couch, his head perking up at the mention. 

“Want me to do yours?” Scott calls back, teasing, and Stiles laughs and launches himself toward the counter, long limbs getting there before the rest of him does. He settles in across from Scott and Scott can see his teasing smile out of the corner of his eye. 

Scott likes doing PAs. He likes doing any piercing someone asks for as long as it’s safe and possible, honestly, likes finding out why they want it and what makes it interesting to them. He gave Cora her bridge piercing and Lydia the septum she always wanted. Everything has a story or a reason, and Scott respects them all, listens intently to every one - from _I just think it will look pretty_ to _it makes me feel more like myself when I look in the mirror_. That’s how he feels, too. More like himself every time. 

Scott fiddles with a pen that’s losing its ink and Stiles looks at Derek, considering him for a minute before ducking his head way too close to his neck without warning. 

Derek doesn’t even blink, just stills enough for Stiles to get a good look at the tattoo he did for Derek last week. “It’s healing nicely,” Derek says, and Stiles hums.

“I’ll be the judge of that,” Stiles tells him, and he reaches out to run a finger over the knot of wolfsbane just at the crook of Derek’s shoulder and neck. Every member of the pack has a version of it somewhere on themselves, little purple flowers dotting their skin.

“It’s healing nicely,” he decides, and then he leans away from Derek and over the counter, up and forward, offering himself for a kiss. Scott takes the opportunity to hop up, plant his hands on the counter and lean in. 

Cora raises her eyebrows as loudly as possible next to them. “That’s finally happening?” 

“Yep,” comes a voice from behind them, and suddenly Scott can feel Allison’s forefinger tucked into his shorts, pulling his underwear back and letting it go, the sick, tight snap of elastic hitting his skin as it comes back to his body. 

“What,” she says, dry and deadpan when he turns to her. “You think I’m afraid of you just because you’re the big bad wolf?” Allison laughs and kisses him on his cheek and then opens the register, drops a stack of ones and fives in. “I like the ruffles, by the way.”

Scott looks down at the bit of pink he can see sticking out from his shorts, the little peek of fabric over the waistline where his belt’s digging into his hip. It’s never been a thing, it’s just a part of him. It’s the way he lives his life, the kind of underwear he wears - and around here, around the shop, it’s never been a big deal. He’ll lean down to pick something up and Allison will snap them, his shirt will ride up and Cora will pull her pants down to show him she’s wearing the same color or the same fabric. When she started coming around more, Lydia asked for his size and now she brings him new pieces she picks up while she’s shopping, and nobody seems to care that their alpha prefers lace cage-backs to boxers or cotton ruffles to briefs.

“Look,” Cora says on cue, tugging at her denim cutoffs. “We match!” She pulls the strap of her thong up over her hip and Scott laughs in surprise.

“That’s yours?” he asks. “I never would’ve taken you for pink lace.”

“Lydia’s,” Cora answers without missing a beat. “She left it last week so I took it. She really has to learn that nothing’s sacred if it fits,” she answers, and then without missing a beat she says, “Stilinski, you’re free until three so you’re at the desk, and remember: no taking walk-ins just because you’re bored. Allison, you know your book?”

Allison nods. “I’ve got a consultation with that beta from over in Santa Cruz first thing at eleven, then a two-hour at one with the omega from up north. And then, what? Those two quick touch-ups after that, I think they’re human. Actually, you guys remember Robbie? She’s back for a touch-up on that compound bow she wanted.”

“I remember her,” Stiles echoes, leaning up to steal another kiss from Scott.

Allison scrunches her nose at them as Cora tilts her head, watching. 

“Anyway, it shouldn’t be too bad, but remember to get your breaks today,” Allison says. “AC is out and those rooms get stuffy, so drink your water and have a towel at the ready. There are standing fans in all of your rooms. Anybody need anything before we start?”

“A shot of Jack,” Stiles answers immediately.

“A raise,” Cora says.

“More coffee,” Derek adds.

“Your never-ending love and affection,” Stiles tries again, and Allison blows them all a kiss.

“Dream on,” she calls as she walks away down the hall, both middle fingers stuck directly in the air, and then they all hunker down and get to work.

///

Once, when they were eighteen, Scott went on vacation with his mom for two weeks and came back to find Stiles with a vertical labret through his bottom lip. Scott had shifted, fallen out of place, felt disconnected for hours as he stared at the way Stiles’ mouth moved with it; it was a different boy than the one he’d always known that was speaking to him, and he sounded different, moved different, touched different. Scott spent an entire day with his fangs bared and his claws popped, lashing out at anything he could. He hated that someone else had pierced Stiles, shoved metal he didn’t know and hadn’t seen through his perfect mouth, and maybe he should have known then what this was, how they’d eventually fall together and never be apart.

It took a full day before his eyes stopped glowing red and his hands were mostly human again. The two of them were sitting at the foot of Scott’s bed, swinging their feet and kicking the comforter, when Scott turned and touched his thumb to Stiles’ new piercing. He took a breath and let out one slow claw against it, staying careful not to let it catch.

“Hey, what,” Stiles started to say against his hand, but he didn’t pull back despite the surprise. 

“Come on, Scotty, you know you’re not supposed to,” Stiles tried again, but he cut himself off when Scott just rested his hand there, looking.

“Let me next time,” Scott told him after a minute, a questioning silence. “Let me do it next time, okay?”

Stiles nodded and watched as Scott dropped his hand, still staring. “Yeah. Yeah, okay.”

He’s been the only one doing it ever since.

///

“Well, that was disgusting,” Stiles keeps saying as they climb the stairs to their apartment at the end of the day.

They’ve both got their bikes hauled over their shoulders, apartment keys tucked into their back pockets, bike locks useless because they’d never dream of leaving them outside anyway. Scott made that mistake the first week they lived there and it was gone in three days, bolt cutters sliced right through the metal of the lock. “Just truly, aggressively gross,” Stiles adds for good measure, even though it’s cooler now and they don’t still feel like they’re roasting in the sun.

“Not as gross as your arm right now,” Scott counters, and Stiles stops dead in the middle of the flight.

“How _dare_ you,” he accuses, but Scott just eyes Stiles’ free wrist and raises his eyebrows in a challenge. 

Stiles’ skin is covered in sweat and melting ice cream from when he’d tried to eat a cone while they biked back, green sticky mint dripping everywhere as they pedaled. There’s still ink under his nails despite the gloves he wears, it’s smeared up his forearms and across his forehead from picking up inked paper towels to wipe his sweat. He’s a mess and Scott never wants to stop staring.

He does want to get to the apartment, though, so he takes a step up and crowds into Stiles’ space on the stairs. From this angle, Stiles towers over him. Scott nudges his nose against Stiles’ turned hip, the little bit of exposed skin where his shirt’s too short, slides his bike to hit him in the butt. “Come on, move, let’s go inside,” he says, and Stiles scoffs and shimmies away from his touch as he starts up the stairs.

They fall through the door and step out of themselves, pull their clothes off as they trail through the kitchen, the living room, the hallway. It’s a nightly tradition to come home and strip down to whatever their most comfortable state is, throwing socks and shirts in a hamper before crashing on the couch with dinner and game controllers between them, sometimes a movie.

Scott hears a knock on his bedroom door and turns to find Stiles there in his boxers, freshly washed hands and face, staring at him like he’s new.

“Can I do that now?” Stiles asks, watching as Scott slips his pants over his hips and lets them fall to the floor. He’s only wearing the ruffled pink underwear, now, and Stiles’ eyes dart back and forth from his eyes to his ass. “Can I let you know I’m looking?”

Scott bends down and snaps his clothes across the room before he walks over to Stiles, slides his arms around him freely.

“Were you always looking?” He noses against Stiles’ jawline, just under the jut of his chin, presses a small kiss to the pulse there when he finds it. He inhales as long as he can, just breathing in the feel and the smell of him.

Stiles sighs and tilts his head and rests it against the doorframe, long line of his neck exposed as he speaks. “I may have had my moments,” he admits.

Scott leans back and brings his hands up Stiles’ face, watches his Adam’s apple bob as he talks, lets his fingers land against the soft side of Stiles’ undercut and tangle in the roots of his hair just above it. Scott dips in to kiss him and the slow slide of their mouths is better than silence, better than talking, better than anything. When Stiles swipes his tongue over Scott’s bottom lip, the cold metal of his tongue ring dragging across Scott’s skin, it feels like a homecoming. It feels like everything’s where it should have been all along.

“Hey,” Stiles says, pulling back and running a hand down Scott’s side. “Remember all these?”

He palms Scott’s left ribs, stretches his hand out across the span of some of the ink there. It’s roses all the way down, big pink and red floral things that Stiles did, and Scott shifts his muscles under the searching weight of Stiles’ fingers. The flowers go from his shoulder to his thigh, wrap halfway around his body and creep up over his hips.

“My twenty-first birthday,” Scott tells him, and he can feel Stiles nod against his shoulder where he dropped his head. They’d holed themselves away together, three days of ink and Assassins Creed and pizza. At the end of it, Stiles had cramped hands. Scott had a sore side. 

“I remember you set up shop in that apartment in Sunnyvale and told Allison we wouldn’t be in to work until it was finished,” Scott laughs, thinking about how Stiles’ fingers wiped down the ink after every pass. He didn’t even know he’d been paying enough attention to it, but he knows why he can still feel it now.

“She was so pissed,” Stiles laughs.

“You stole me from her.”

“You went with me because you wanted to.”

“I had work,” Scott argues. “ _We_ had work.”

“It was worth it,” Stiles tries.

“It was,” Scott admits, leaning his hips in and pinning Stiles against the wall.

“Remember these,” Stiles murmurs, dragging his cheek against Scott’s and running his fingertips up to Scott’s collarbone, tracing the double-line lyrics below it. _Stay hungry, stay free_ , it says, _and do the best you can_. 

“Remember these,” Stiles jumps to the trees winding up Scott’s right side, the wolfsbane woven in between. “Remember these,” the classification of wolves down his back, “remember these,” Scott’s own handprint on one shoulder blade and his mom’s on the other, “remember these,” the lilies on his thigh, “remember this.”

The last one Stiles’ fingers stop on is the double black line, the second tattoo Scott ever got. It’s the first one Stiles did on his own, back when they were eighteen and he had just spent a year at the shop with Allison learning what her father’s friend could teach them. Stiles snuck Scott in one Sunday they were closed. It was stupid and they were unsupervised, and the two lines turned out a little crooked and uneven. Scott loves them anyway, the shaky beginning and the solid end.

Stiles has been the only one to lay ink on Scott since then, even though Allison’s been dying to get her hands on him. She’s always sketching things out: bite marks where he was turned, the phases of the moon around his arm, a wolf’s head chestpiece with an open, asking mouth. She likes the tie to the pack, the way that wolves take to ink. Allison holds countless pieces of tracing paper up to him, but Scott likes the way he and Stiles belong to each other, a possession, the way they give up themselves for each other without question.

“I like these,” Stiles says, pulling Scott out of his head. Stiles is smoothing his hand over Scott’s underwear, playing with them, running fabric through his fingers as he rests his forehead against Scott’s.

“They match,” he adds, looking between the roses and the ruffles.

“I like the pink,” Scott admits, and he feels Stiles dip the tips of his fingers beneath the waistband at his hip. He lifts his hands again, runs them through Stiles’ hair as Stiles hesitates, takes his time about learning this new thing between them.

“I like your body when it is with my body,” Scott murmurs against his temple, and Stiles digs his fingers in, pinches the skin in response.

“Are you quoting e.e. cummings at me?” Stiles’ laughter is surprised and happy. Scott can hear it in his breath, can feel it in the way he drops his head and pins a kiss against Scott’s shoulder. 

“It is so quite a new thing,” Scott answers as he pulls them tight together.

They stay like that against the door for what feels like forever, letting their hands roam places they haven’t before. Stiles catches Scott’s eye and Scott watches quietly as he licks his palm all over, getting it slick with spit before he drops it into Scott’s underwear and gives him a lazy, desperate handjob. Scott leans his head back and bares his neck, an alpha in the hands of his human half, and Stiles sucks bruises into his skin that Scott won’t let heal for days. He likes the marks, the reminder of control he still has and everything he can choose to give up if he wants to.

After, when they’re both boneless and done with their boyish fumbling, after Scott drops to his knees and blows Stiles slow and questioning and Stiles comes all over his face, they fall onto the couch and play video games until they fall asleep there. It’s just like it’s always been, except it isn’t, and the differences make Scott feel like he’s shifting his pieces into place.

At one point in the night he hears Stiles snoring on the cushion next to him, and when he chances a look while he tries not to wake him, the wolf inside Scott settles happily into his stomach, burrows and feels warm and safe and proud of his life. Scott knows everything looks different from here on out, but he also knows it’s what he’s always pictured: open hearts, hand in hand, Stiles and his pack by his side.

///

Stiles starts his shift earlier than Scott does the next day, so Scott wakes up to an empty apartment, a muffin and fresh coffee waiting for him on the counter, no note. He inhales the food and drink and hops on his bike feeling grounded and happy, and he doesn’t even mind the morning fog on his commute.

When he gets to work, he finds it with no one behind the counter and the waiting room empty except for Derek, sitting with his feet propped up on the table there. 

“Hey,” Scott calls, tossing his keys onto the counter, waiting for Derek to look up. “Where is everybody?”

Derek’s on his break from the coffee shop, likes to take shifts despite the fact that he owns the place, and he’s flipping through a book they keep laying around for customers to browse. People use them all the time to see the artists’ work, get design ideas, choose their ink when they aren’t sure what they want yet, choose an artist if they aren’t familiar with the shop. But Derek likes flipping through Cora’s section just to see what she can do and what she works on when she’s there, at the shop, a place she feels at home. They find him there all the time, coffee in hand, smiling down at what she’s created.

“He’s in the back,” Derek answers as he looks up, and Scott can feel him watching him as he scans the room again, finding it empty still, quiet except for the two of them.

“What?”

“Stiles. He’s in the back with Allison,” Derek clarifies, shrugging. “You just looked like you were looking for him.”

Scott laughs and cards his fingers through his hand, drops a hand to his side. “Are we that obnoxious already?”

“No,” Derek answers quickly, shutting the art book, getting up. “You do that with everyone. You’re like that with all of us. Allison, too, even Cora.” He leans against the counter and brings his elbows up, temples his hands together.

“It’s nice,” Derek adds after a minute of Scott standing there, still looking at him, waiting. “You just want to know where we are.” 

“It makes me feel settled,” Scott smiles, stealing Derek’s latte cup and taking a sip. He makes a face because it’s bitter.

“Your wolf?” Derek asks.

“All of me,” Scott answers, and Derek nods and steals his cup back.

“It’s nice,” he says again, and then he pushes off the counter and grabs his jacket. 

“They should be done soon,” he adds as Scott opens his appointment book, scrolling through for times. “It was just a touch up. Tell Cora I’ll stop by when she’s out?” 

“I will,” Scott says, looking up as Derek slips out the door with a wave. As soon as it closes, Scott feels steady hands wrapping around his waist, Stiles’ long fingers digging into his hips, a kiss pressed into his neck in greeting.

“Hey you,” Stiles murmurs, and Scott thinks about the way he looks for Stiles in every room he walks into. He likes knowing that this is a new place Stiles might be. A new check to add to the list, here against Scott’s skin, the first place he’ll look every time from now on.

///

Summer’s full of hazy days after that, after they find their way to each other and keep holding tight. The breeze off the bay keeps them cool and the shop gets a steady stream of tourists and locals, students whose apartments are rented for the whole year, packs from across the country who come to meet the alpha they’ve heard so much about. Scott McCall, gentle fangs, giving heart. It’s a different way to run a pack and people are always intrigued and Scott’s happy to talk and talk.

The pack itself is steady and strong and they float in and out of the shop on a daily basis. Allison runs a tight ship and business is good, it’s happy, it feels more like play sometimes. Derek stops by every morning to supply caffeine for the humans, they all knit themselves together so tight they’ll never fall away, and sometimes they throw movie nights so Erica and Boyd can sit in the back and throw popcorn at Scott and Stiles when they make out in front of the projector they dug out of the back of the video store. 

The two of them start sharing a bed and wonder why they hadn’t been before.

In mid-July, Scott and Allison throw a barbecue block party out of the parlor and open the shop doors for walk-ins, but they end up doing most of the work on each other instead. They turn up the AC so it’s blasting and let the music bounce off the walls, shove beers into every empty hand for the entire day and consider it a sin if someone isn’t holding a bottle.

Late sometime in the hazy afternoon, Scott goes looking for Stiles and finds him is in his work room with Allison, filling in some shading he’d promised her a couple of weeks ago. He keeps slowly adding color to the chest piece he’s doing, stringing it together and adding work when they can both find the time to take a break from everything else. 

When Scott stops in to see them, he finds Allison her on her back with her shirt open, pale freckled skin, Stiles bent over so close to her that he’s practically resting his chin on her chest. Scott watches as her nipples ghost over Stiles’ cheek every so often when he leans down to make a line as precise as possible, the contact so familiar, so easy and free of tension or intent. They both look so content and grounded; Allison has her eyes closed and Stiles’ are sharp and focused, lost in what he’s doing. 

Scott’s proud to see them like this, the backbone of his family, his human warriors. He likes that they’re so comfortable and free with each other. He doesn’t want to interrupt, so Scott watches Stiles wipe the spot under her breast just once more and then he leaves, lets them get lost in their work, and he wanders back out toward the street.

He finds Cora and Derek behind the grill and spends the rest of the afternoon serving with them, flipping burgers, bringing their block together as best they can.

Derek cooks his burgers medium rare and Cora covers them in hot sauce, lets Lydia wipe the red from off of her cheek when it gets messy. They watch Isaac and Erica play shuffleboard for the first time while Boyd is doubled over with laughter somewhere off to the side, taking pictures.

At one point, Derek grabs a beer for himself and motions to the stack of paper plates next to Scott, presses the spatula into the patty he’s cooking at lets the grill hiss with the effort. Scott grabs a plate and a bun from the bags they’ve got on hand, hands it off and lets Derek toss the meat on the bread. He straightens his back and stretches out his shoulders, rolling them a little as Derek hands it to the woman who owns the laundromat, standing next to him with eager, waiting hands.

Derek makes another and passes it off to Scott, and Scott takes this one for himself. “Grab one,” Derek says, and as soon as Scott does he slides a burger on top and raises his bottle in a cheers.

“To good food,” Derek says, and Scott knows what he means.

He drenches the burger in Cholula and jalapeños, jack cheese, as much heat as he can manage to fit into one mouthful. He takes a bite of his burger and lets the mess drip down his chin. It’s summer, after all. He’s got time to get it all right later.

///

Scott opens his eyes one weekend night when it’s actually already dawn, an hour that could be morning or night depending on whether you’re waking up or falling asleep, and the sun’s already blue outside the window. There’s an early chill settling across the tile floor even in the dead of summer, and the wood is cool when Scott’s bare feet hit it. He looks to his left and sees an empty space, a Stiles-shaped indent in the bed with the covers pulled back, one sock tucked just under the top sheet. He smiles to himself and grabs it before he stands and walks out of the room, shuffling his way through the house.

The little hallway outside their bedroom is dark, but he can see light spilling in through the kitchen and he stops himself there, rests a shoulder against the doorway and looks out at a familiar sight: Stiles leaned against the kitchen sink with a mug of coffee in his hand, the steam fogging up his glasses, a clean towel, a razor, a vial of India ink sitting in the middle of the floor in a patch of straining sun. Scott walks over to him and presses their hips together, wraps his arms around Stiles’ waist. He drops a kiss to Stiles’ bare shoulder and they stand like that, waking up together, slow and off-balance but upright for the moment.

“Couldn’t sleep?” Scott asks, and Stiles nods. He takes a sip of his coffee and Scott can feel it when he swallows, the bob of his Adam’s apple shaking his muscles through his shoulder in a ripple effect that hits Scott’s cheek. He likes it, feeling how Stiles’ human body moves, reminding himself that sometimes their limbs work the same way despite the wolf in him.

“You want?” Stiles asks, holding the mug against Scott’s temple. It’s warm and perfect and Scott leans into the weight before he grabs the handle and drinks it down, draining it before Stiles even has time to protest.

“Who’s doing who?” Scott asks when he’s finished, fumbling mouth still sticky and slow from sleep.

“You, me,” Stiles tells him, as always, and Scott takes just another minute with their bodies pressed together before he pushes off of Stiles and starts to move.

Instinctively, he goes for the cabinet. His new-day hands find the sewing needles, the pencil, the lighter, the thick thread they keep on a spool for these kinds of mornings. Out of the corner of his eye, Scott sees Stiles lean down and grab a mixing bowl before he drops down onto the towel and flips through the music on his phone. Scott grabs what he needs, alcohol swabs and cotton balls, and shuts the cabinet. He ruffles a hand through Stiles’ hair as he walks around him, all folded limbs on the hard floor, and Stiles scrunches his nose and sticks his tongue out at Scott. Scott just smiles easily back at him.

He crosses his legs and leans forward, grabs the needle and thread, the pencil, and starts wrapping. He’s made enough stick-and-poke guns to know what he’s doing with his eyes closed. 

He could use the actual tattoo guns from the shop. Stiles offers all the time, anyway.

“I could teach you,” he always says.

“I’m good with my Higgins and sewing needle,” Scott always answers. He likes this better: sprawled on the floor with his love, just their breathing and the motions he knows so well, the soft sound of music mixing with the world outside.

“What are you thinking?” Scott asks, settling in. 

“Blake today,” Stiles answers, throwing his phone in the bowl and hitting play, and Scott smiles at the thought of Stiles in the Jawbreaker shirt he’s had for a decade, brown with dirt and cut off at the chest, a perfect crop for his tummy in the summer. It shows off Stiles' piercings perfectly - the dermals on his hips and on the dimples of his back, the curved bar through his bellybutton. Scott gets lost in it for a minute and then comes back to the moment, _24 Hour Revenge Therapy_ tinny and loud as it can be between them, amplified through the glass.

“I meant,” Scott cuts himself off, gesturing with the pencil that’s nearly covered in thread now, maybe an eighth of an inch still showing. 

“Oh,” Stiles laughs, the sound bright in the still air. “I don’t care, whatever you want,” he answers. “Maybe on my ankle.” He picks up the razor and shaves a bald patch on the inside of his right leg, just above the ankle bone. Scott wraps the last of the thread while he does it, hand moving in a tight circle around the pencil. 

Scott looks up when he’s done, watches as Stiles scrapes the blades over his pale skin. These are the soft parts of their lives now, all the ways they find to belong to each other. How they find their way back to this in the middle of everything.

“You ready?” Scott asks, and it’s not like they haven’t done this before. There’s a heart on Stiles’ hip, an arrow on the back of his knee, _blue jeans_ on one wrist and _white t-shirts_ on the other, a complement to Scott’s lyrics. Scott did them all and he’ll do more, eventually, probably in all the early mornings when ink is easier than words.

Stiles looks up at him and hums, tilts his chin and smiles. 

“Come here,” he says, and he sticks his hands out to pull Scott in. Stiles balls a fist against Scott’s chest and gets the other tangled in his hair as they crash, mouths sliding together like coming home. They kiss slow and happy for a minute, the dip of their tongues and lips enough to calm the swell, the overwhelming sense of forever between them.

When they pull apart, Scott drags his free hand down Stiles’ cheek, leaves it resting there as he picks up an alcohol swab and goes over the little shaved patch of skin. He grabs the lighter - the Batman lighter Stiles has had for years and keeps refilling instead of replacing - while Stiles grabs the needle. Scott flicks the edge of it, sees the flame pop up, and Stiles sticks the metal in the fire until it’s red hot and glowing, clean. Scott steadies himself as it cools, then dips the tip of the needle in the India ink, looks Stiles in the eye.

“Ready,” Stiles answers.

Scott inhales and stretches the skin and presses just right, and they can both hear the sick little pop as the needle breaks through the first layer, the second layer. The first dot done.

Stiles exhales a breath Scott didn’t realize he’d been holding, and from there it’s a routine like any other. Stiles curls his fingers tight into the roots of Scott’s hair as Scott focuses, it’s messy, it’s ink everywhere and reminders to breathe steady. This is what they mean when they say permanence: Scott tattooing his initials onto Stiles’ ankle, two hours and only a little bit of blood, their young hearts in love like full moons.

Stiles looks down in the middle of it and murmurs, “Now I’m yours forever,” just when Scott is halfway through the M, close to the bone. It’s a little quiet, a little punch-drunk, a little bit morning haze. It’s just dramatic enough that Scott knows he’s not kidding. 

Scott doesn’t miss a beat despite the way Stiles shuts his eyes, the wrinkles in the corners getting deeper with every poke. It has to hurt, but Scott touches like Stiles is a part of him. They’re as easy as that - they always have been. They were each other’s even before they were in love, and Scott thinks maybe that will always be true. Every press of his thumb to Stiles’ calf, every tug of Stiles’ fingers against his scalp, he learns: how a simple touch can ground them, how it can knock them right off their feet.

///

Allison looks up at them the next morning when they tumble across the threshold of the shop, bikes lifted over their shoulders and trying to navigate their handlebars through the doorway, only barely managing to succeed every time no matter how many times they’ve already done it.

“Need help?” She pauses in the middle of copying aftercare instructions and stares at them, making absolutely no moves to be of use.

“We’re good,” Scott calls back easily, setting his bike down so he can wheel it the rest of the way.

“Speak for yourself,” Stiles answers. “I need help. Save me, Allison, _please save me_ ,” he faux-wails, but she rolls her eyes fondly at him and turns back to the copier.

“You’re fine! You’re so dramatic.”

“I’m weak,” he counters, but he’s already gotten the bike through to the hallway and is fumbling for their keys in his shallow pocket by the time she finishes.

In the easy quiet of settling in, Allison turns away from them and looks at the book for the day, continues her routine they all know so well. There’s comfort in it, Scott thinks, her steady presence, the way he knows just where she’ll be and all the ways she’ll check in with them. Allison does it all the time despite how busy she gets, despite all the things she has to do every day. She makes sure to keep them close at hand, close to her heart, exactly where Scott wants the pack to be with each other.

As she’s counting cash, doling out ones and fives and cracking rolls of quarters into their slots, she calls back to them while they hang their bags and shed their hats, their wristbands. “What’d you guys do yesterday?”

“Well,” Stiles starts immediately, and Scott turns to find him beaming at the back of her head.

“Oh god, why does Stilinski have that look on his face?” Cora deadpans as she skids into the room from the back of the shop, tossing out handfuls of empty ink vials and wiping her hands.

“Because I’m happy, Cora,” Stiles answers. “I’m smiling. That’s a thing people do when they’re happy.”

“You’re an asshole,” she tells him, leaning into his space and grabbing an apple from the counter Scott’s standing next to. It’s calm for a beat before she prompts Stiles again.

“Aren’t you going to tell us why you’re happy?” Immediately after asking, she catches Scott’s eye and gives him a small smile, a knowing one, an exasperated but kind one. 

Allison’s waiting for Stiles to respond now, too, turned away from the register and standing there with a hand on her hip and considering him quietly.

“Well, Cora, since you asked.” He hops up on a stool around the other side of the counter and swings his leg up on the wood, casually turning his foot so they can see his ankle, the fresh ink, Scott’s initials permanently etched into his skin.

Allison leans in and drags her fingers over the soft, shaved skin, still a little shiny and all intact; it hasn’t started peeling yet.

“You did this?” She turns to Scott as she asks, soft voice and soft eyes, something else there that Scott can’t quite place. Pride, maybe, her version of it, reserved for the most important moments of survival.

“Yeah,” Scott nods, jutting his chin out and smiling. “It’s a good thing you asked early. He was going to spend all day trying to get everyone to notice if you didn’t.”

“I was,” Stiles confirms, leaning his head back and blowing a kiss to Scott, the show he puts on, the production of it all. He knows what he gets when it’s just them, the difference, how real all versions of Stiles’ love are and how hard-won they can be, so he takes this as it comes and gives back as much as he can. 

“It looks nice,” Allison says after a minute. “Smoother than the heart. That was your first, right?”

Cora reaches over and pulls up the hem of Stiles’ shirt, swipes a hand over the first stick and poke Scott ever did on Stiles, the dotted heart just above his hip bone. Maybe he should have known then, too. It might have been another moment of realizing how they would end up here, how he would lose all ability to know a life without Stiles’ name on his lips, Stiles’ voice buzzing in his head. Scott looks over at them now, how happy Stiles is under Allison and Cora’s touch, their scent all over him and pulling him home, keeping them all pieced together through whatever it is they need to survive.

Scott nods at Allison again, stays quiet and watches this part of his pack. 

Here’s where he finds himself, he knows. These are the ways he learns to love his world. The riptide, the supernatural, the feral hum inside of him that’s beneath everything he does. 

This is how he does it, how he makes it through: by letting his love run wild from his heart. This pack, this boy, this part of him he never wants to lose. This part he finally knows he never will. All he has to do is let it happen. All he has to do is open his arms and let Stiles keep falling into them, open his mouth and let Stiles take his breath every day.

All he has to do is want to love him and then do it, so he does.


End file.
